Such
is frustration—this charm of villains, as a mood becomes a torpedo; to feel
invasion, this intrusive force, pleading for altercations. We fight it fairly,
this unfair gripe, seated at a cliff; so oh the good-times, scribbling squares,
a sign that something’s wrong; so we find for war, that whiff of irritation, as
to fain perfection. It becomes a daymare, a volt of anxiety, this thing
draining our powers; as to rupture balance, this un-seeable thread, unraveling
at the seams.
We
grip for beauty, a butterfly on a weed, as symbolic oaths; to trek a fearless
sea, or trample an endless sky, that closer to a warm goodbye; where a gesture
churns a tear, to receive that one hug, as to witness through feelings. Our
world is subtle, and tritely overt, where we soar silent portfolios. They dwell
within, as to capture years forgotten, a man of forty wrestling a twenty year
itch. Oh to see it plainly, this inner mechanism, as a lifetime of repentance;
for it creeps
within,
as too young in wisdom, where the parts explain the whole; so why for
questions, as to interrogate the whole, where analogies have spoken fruits?
Such is frustration, pillaging a soul, enraptured by nuances; to love for
sport, or to love for soul, as one inebriated by love; if only to surface, as
to endure our rounds, leaning towards a technical knockout; where time eases
rain, this dam cracking softly, as a friend of endurance; to know our parts,
this velvet cinema, to
